


Force-Fed

by meaninglessblah



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Exhibitionism, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Forced Prostitution, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Minor Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Minor Tim Drake/Ra's al Ghul, Mutual Non-Con, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Past Rape/Non-con, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Tapes, Unhappy Ending, Wealth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27130048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Tim lives a surreal life as a co-victor of the recent Hunger Games, forced to play the role of the enemies-to-lovers couple with his would-be murderer Jason. But he knows, so long as he plays his part, he can survive the Capitol's obsession with him. He just has to take each day at a time, smile for the cameras, and make no waves.When Tim discovers the price for survival is set far higher than he ever dreaded it could be, he's not sure he wants to pay the price. He's not sure he has a choice, anyway.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Tim Drake/Jason Todd, Tim Drake/Ra's al Ghul
Comments: 26
Kudos: 142
Collections: DC Aspec Week





	Force-Fed

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for [DC Aspec Week](https://dc-aspec-week.tumblr.com/).

Everything that passes over Tim’s tongue tastes like the fizzling peach champagne they’d given him in the car ride over, to soothe his flayed nerves. He’s never tasted peaches in his life - they’re grown in an exclusive greenhouse in the Capitol and brought out for only the most elite of parties - and Tim wonders if this is even what they taste like, or if this is a cheap imitation of them, a trick. 

It’s not like he can tell the difference between illusion and reality these days anyway. 

He’d been in an arena two weeks ago, covered in blood and grime, with nearly thirty pounds of explosive packed into every crevice of the cave he was huddled in. The twisting, underground system of tunnels feeding beneath the Cornucopia that his Gamemaker had been kind enough to install, and Tim had been suicidal enough to rig to blow with him and his would-be murderer inside. 

And now Tim is sitting in a car with a ghost who tried to kill him, on his way to a party to celebrate his newfound romance, smelling like peaches. 

Tim shifts in his extravagant suit that feels two sizes too tight and far more ostentatious than any outfit has a right to be. He can’t count how many different facades he’s been squeezed into over the last fortnight of interviews, his hair pulled and sprayed until his scalp burns even when he’s running it underwater. His face has been styled and restyled so many times he barely remembers his own cheekbones, his own demure smile, the vibrant blue of his own eyes. Everything feels rearranged, a skin layered over his own that he wears every time he’s paraded in front of a television camera or a live audience or an elite party. 

Tim hasn’t slept in days. Can’t manage to squeeze in more than a handful of hours between when Jason leaves their bed and when the nightmares wake him. 

He wonders how his lover is sleeping, whether Jason’s having any better luck in his own bed. When Tim had asked last, while they had been milling backstage for yet another television spot on the fated love-overcomes-hate couple, Jason had muttered something about four years being enough time dead for him to waste any more on sleep. 

Tim glances over at the man sprawled in the seat beside him, chin propped up on a palm as he watches the city slide by through the tinted window. Jason looks so somber without his camera-forced smile, his posture that much more of a rebuff now that he’s not pretending to dote on Tim. He can feel the distance like it’s arctic, draws his limbs up closer to stave off the chill. 

He doesn’t know how they’ve managed to last this long, when Jason hates him so vehemently. Doesn’t know how much longer they can continue this charade. 

Tim knows the answer though. Knows Jason will keep tipping up his chin to kiss him, and wrapping his huge palm around his waist - the same one that had tried to squeeze the life from Tim’s throat back in the arena - for as long as the cameras are watching. For as long as the Capitol craves their adored enemies-to-lovers couple, until they’re sated by their performance and their adulating vows to one another. 

And every night, Tim will smile shyly at the cameras and tuck his head under Jason’s chin, pillow his head on the man’s chest, curled close in their bed in the Capitol. 

And every night, as soon as the production crew has called an end to the day, Jason will slide out of the sheets and pad to his own room, where he doesn’t have to shove down the urge to squirm away from every one of Tim’s touches. Where he can vent his animosity without an audience. 

They’ll do their sycophantic routine every day for the rest of their lives if they have to, to stay alive. Tim knows their fame has a use by date attached, knows they have to keep the Capitol citizens invested in their love-overcomes-the-Games romance. Knows their continued existence hinges on their ability to lie, and simper, and play the part of doting boyfriends, for as long as it takes. 

Sometimes Tim almost wishes he could go back to the Jason in that cave, the weapon the Capitol had bred especially for their Games, the child who had barely survived his first arena only to be regurgitated back into another. The one who had pinned Tim down on the grass and hesitated with his knife in Tim’s throat, had dragged his gaze from his steady hands to the detonator Tim had brandished, a dead smile on his lips and a fire in his eyes. 

At least that Jason had been genuine, had been real. 

He plays his role well; Jason’s a decent actor, at least when it comes to wooing Tim for the audience. There’s very little risk that he’ll jeopardise their manufactured relationship. It would cost him just as much as it would cost Tim to reveal the ruse, and they both feel they’re owed too much to throw their lives away now. 

But Tim still envies the simplicity they’d had before, the solemn resignation they’d shared on the cusp of death, locked in a stalemate as they awaited whatever fate the Gamemaker would hand down to them. Jason gripping his knife, and Tim gripping his detonator. Neither willing to concede to sleep or death or each other, until the final cannon had sounded. 

Tim can still remember the shock on the man’s face, the _relief._ Neither of them had ever thought they’d live as long as they had, never dreamed they’d survive. Neither of them know what to do with their lives now that they’ve got them. 

Might as well play their parts for as long as the Capitol needs them to. 

It’s not all bad. The house they were gifted by an exceedingly generous sponsor is nice. Much nicer, Tim suspects, than Jason ever even saw back in District 12. Even the wealth the Capitol’s demand for technology had flooded into Tim’s own District had never amounted to buildings this large, furniture this plush, sheets this soft. Tim’s never known luxury, but he was comfortable before his reaping. 

Tim was a lot of things before his reaping. Sometimes he wishes he could go back and shake himself for being so content with the world, so at ease with how things had been. He’d been driven, certainly, and intelligent. Top of his classes, on track for a promising career in some of his District’s most prestigious factories. He would have been engineering gadgets and devices aplenty. Maybe he would have even been designing traps and bombs to eviscerate children in another arena, another Games. 

It nearly hadn’t been enough to keep him alive. He’d survived the initial bloodbath by running, hiding himself away and holding out for days - scratching, starving _days_ \- without food or water. Unwilling to risk drawing the others’ attention to himself. Waiting for their numbers to dwindle to a figure that Tim could more easily evade. 

He’d plotted a careful course around the Cornucopia; never close enough to incite a fight, never far enough to tempt the Gamemaker into corralling him towards the more bloodthirsty tributes. Let them thin each other out and prayed he’d survive long enough to see the last. 

The explosives had been an opportunistic steal from another less fortunate contestant, as had been discovering the tunnels. Tim had spotted them days before while running from a team of tributes, crawling through the mud and rock on his bare elbows, choking for air. It was nearly luck that had led him to exploring just how deeply they led, just how expansive the network of caves had been beneath the Cornucopia. 

He’d thought the turn of luck would keep him alive. Thought that he could outlast them all down there, or kill them in the collapse trying. 

It nearly hadn’t been enough to stop Jason. 

One of the eldest tributes at eighteen, with over a hundred pounds of muscle on Tim and four years worth of training with Capitol tutors, the man had overcome Tim in seconds. It had never been a fair fight; the few hours that Tim had trained with a bo staff in the gyms before being flown to the arena had been piteous compared to Jason’s prowess with a knife, and a sword, and any manner of makeshift weapon he’d managed to get his hands on. 

He hadn’t joined any teams. Hadn’t seemed to want nor need anyone’s help in mowing through the twenty-three other tributes the Gamemakers had been cruel enough to set in his path. Tim had marked Jason as a threat from the moment he’d spied him across the Cornucopia, had made sure he headed in the opposite direction as soon as the first cannon had fired. 

And fate had brought them together anyway. It’s nearly sickening to think about. 

Tim does his best to remember it’s not Jason’s fault. Tells himself that he would have been just as eager - _had_ been just as eager - to kill him if their positions were reversed. Reminds himself every time he sees the mess of scars that cleave apart the expanse of Jason’s skin that the man’s just as much a victim of the Capitol’s bloodlust as Tim is. 

It’s hard, when there’s a scar on Tim’s neck and a strange man sharing his bed. But he does try, even now. 

He winds his fingers into the palm Jason offers him, breathes through the initial squeeze as Jason centres himself, buries the brief flare of fear at the sight of the crowd awaiting them. It’s almost like watching him become a different person, the way he emerges as their beloved victor when the car rolls to a halt. 

The door opens to an excited crowd, breaching the quiet solitude they’d enjoyed on the ride over, and Tim braces himself against the initial wave of noise when Jason pulls to his feet and grins at some of the cameras. It’s easier to pretend the sweep of Jason’s thumb over his knuckles is reassuring when he alights from the vehicle behind him, easy to let himself believe the adoring croon of the crowd when Jason helps set him upright in his heels. 

Tim can almost pretend he’s one of the audience, an unaffected voyeur watching their sugarsweet love affair playing out on the screen. 

The peachy taste is fading, the tannins leaching the flavour from Tim’s bitten tongue as he smiles and waves at the crowd of paparazzi. They’ve done this exact routine so many times now that Tim could do it in his sleep. It almost feels like a dance, when Jason’s other hand slides to the dip of his waist, pulls him gently into Jason’s more expansive side. 

Tim turns into it with a short instep, twists and tilts his head up to meet the soft press of Jason’s lips. Tim wonders idly if he tastes like peaches to Jason, or something more bitter. The thought lingers even when Jason pulls back after a long moment of cooing from the crowd, that smile bright but those eyes dead when he lifts his head, and Tim swallows back disappointment. 

The performance is important. It’s the only important thing in Tim’s life right now. The performance keeps them alive, ensures their survival. Tim swoons into Jason’s side, pillows his head on the man’s broad shoulder, and smiles his most dazzling peach-champagne smile. 

The moment passes. The crowd is sated, and Jason and Tim make their way up the path carved for them to the party. Tim can’t remember whose house this one is, what milestone their host has conjured up to celebrate. He’s only half-sure it’s in their honour; most Capitol parties seem to be for their benefit these days, an excuse to beckon in their star-crossed couple, draw a bigger crowd to primp and preen over. Tim would be disappointed at being used for approval ratings if they weren’t exactly what was keeping them alive. 

He’d learnt quickly that sponsors are more in it for themselves than for the altruism. It hadn’t taken him long to realise that every gift came with an expectation, but Tim was a beggar in a strange city, and he would take anything useful he could get. If it costs him a few hours of mingling with sycophants and liars to be gifted the rest of his life, Tim will do it in a heartbeat. 

Tim doesn’t mind the parties. They’re easy enough to navigate. They’re just like interviews, really; throw out a handful of key words, repeat the same placating phases, smile, laugh. 

He’d gotten used to the touches after the first uncomfortable surprise. Fingertips trailing down his spine, pulling at his clothing, accompanied by croons of how handsome he is, how stunning his outfit, how beautiful his eyes. The humility isn’t forced, but Tim takes the path of the humble man anyway. 

Jason’s even less comfortable with the wayward pats and strokes than Tim is, even now. Tim’s learnt to study the man’s body language like a second tongue, so it hardly escapes his notice when Jason flinches beneath the press of the host’s palm over his shoulder. He allows himself to be drawn into the gaudily dressed man's confidence anyway, turned towards a camera that catalogues his every move. 

Tim hovers at his elbow, and smiles, and tries to convey his sympathy in the grip he has on Jason’s hand. Jason doesn’t acknowledge it. 

Then the host is moving along to beckon in other, more important guests, and Tim breathes a sigh of relief as they’re finally allowed to step out of the spotlight and into the den. 

He surrenders his suit jacket into the waiting hands of an Avox, shivering beneath the cold air that ripples up his bared spine. Jason's hand splays across his back, warm and protective for a moment, before it corrects to fall to the small of his back, and Tim swallows his disappointment. 

“Should we get a drink?” Tim asks, turning towards his lover, but Jason is already parting from his side, descending the steps and bracing himself for the crowd of wolves below. Tim picks at his nails, remembers that he only had them manicured yesterday, and wraps them into fists. 

Then he gathers himself, and heads into the fray himself. 

He’s practiced at this now, used to throwing out passing salutations and engaging in clipped small talk. Tim’s learnt that most people in the Capitol want to hear their own voice more than his answers. So he’s fashioned himself into an attentive listener, flitting from conversation to conversation as soon as he’s able to extract himself. 

He passes an hour this way, occasionally brushing past Jason, who listens to the chatter of partygoers with a tight smile and repulsed stoicism. There’s nothing Tim can do to help him; he’s got his own admirers to fend off. 

Tim’s browsing the dizzying selection of foodstuffs on the buffet table, tended by an attentive Avox who switches out cooling dishes with practiced efficiency, his stomach turning at the overwhelming scents. He can’t name half the concoctions within his reach, eyes blurring past the spectrum of colours, when a body presses up beside him, startling Tim from his reverie. 

The practiced smile rises to his lips and dies at the sight of the man. 

“Timothy,” Ra’s al Ghul murmurs fondly, one thumb stroking down the lapel of his ostentatiously green suit. “A pleasure to see you, as always.” 

Tim’s mouth is dry, his tongue swollen as he blinks up at the man. It takes one salt-and-pepper brow arching before he remembers his manners. 

The smile returns, and Tim hopes it’s less strained than the beat of his heart in his ribcage. “Ra’s, I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

“And miss an opportunity to spend an evening with my favourite victor?” Ra’s purrs, those vibrant eyes gleaming as he strokes a finger up Tim’s bared wrist. It takes all his nerve not to yank it back from that touch. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

“No,” Tim whispers, smile broadening to compensate for the flare of panic in his chest. “I’m sure you wouldn’t.” 

He’d discovered who Ra’s was at his first event in the Capitol. The man hadn’t hesitated to single Tim out, to shoulder his way into the conversation with an eager leer and a sweep of the flute perched between his long, bony fingers. 

He’s Tim’s Gamemaker, the one responsible for the caves, and the arena, and Jason’s unfortunate resurrection. Responsible for bringing them together for the Quarter Quell. He’d concocted the dazzling scenery, the meticulous landscape. Orchestrated the bloodshed and the violence that had nearly cost Tim his life. 

And then, to have him stand here, admiring Tim’s courage like he’s some particularly proficient pet. It turns Tim’s empty stomach, makes the taste of peaches rise like acid in his throat. 

Ra’s returns his smile, the sight overwarm and cloying. “I do enjoy your company, Timothy. I can hardly stand to converse with the rest of the guests; they’re drab compared to your intriguing wit.” 

Tim gives Ra’s a tinkling laugh that’s choked around his thick throat. He’d spent his first party curled over in the bathroom, retching up the thousands of hors d'oeuvres he’d been passed, Ra’s delighted grin plastered on the back of his eyelids. 

“You flatter me, Ra’s,” he says, flashing teeth. 

Ra’s takes a step closer, one finger brushing down the length of Tim’s arm. Gooseflesh prickles beneath the scrape of his nail, and Tim feels nauseated, looking up into those emerald lens. 

“I had thought we might retire to a more private room, to engage in more titillating conversion. Away from these-” 

Tim pulls back, cutting him off with a quick smile, “I’d love to, Ra’s, but I’m afraid I have to-” 

Ra’s fingers close around his wrist, and Tim has the startling realisation that he’s not allowed to make a scene here. Already a few gazes have turned their way, and Tim feels smothered beneath their weight. 

“Who’s to stop you?” Ra’s murmurs. Tim’s mouth runs dry. 

Then there’s an arm wrapping around his waist, and a drunk guffaw shattering through the cotton filling his ears. Dark hair, woven in a complicated updo, and a splash of dark blue glitter dusted over high cheekbones. Even brighter blue eyes crinkled with mirth. 

“Timmy,” Dick Grayson jeers, rounding on Tim to slot himself into their conversation. Ra’s smile falls with the company, but if Dick notices, all he returns is blistering ignorance. “I thought I might find you around here.” 

“Dick,” Tim says, the smile flickering onto his lips just a second too late. 

Dick returns it nonetheless, before he glances at the third member of their group. “Oh, Ra’s! Been a while, how are you?” 

“Sublime,” the man answers in a strict monotone, all his previous cadence erased. 

“Love to hear it,” Dick answers, and then beams down at Tim. “I thought I might steal Timmy for a second, I wanted to introduce him to some friends of mine.” 

Ra’s waves an uninterested hand, reaching for an hors d'oeuvre with the other. “Of course,” he concedes sullenly, and Tim lets himself be pulled away eagerly. 

When they’re beyond earshot, Dick steers them towards a balcony, brushing back the curtains to guide Tim over the threshold and into the night. The cool air hits him like a balm, bringing Tim back to wakefulness as Dick’s warm arm steadies him, still wrapped over his shoulder blades. 

“How’re you holding up?” he asks, stepping back once they find a secluded corner to linger. His arm retreats, though that smile doesn’t. “Are you alright?” 

“I think so,” Tim answers on a shuddering breath, and Dick troubles a passing Avox for two glasses of cherry wine while Tim gathers himself. “Thank you, for- whatever that was back there.” 

“A rescue,” Dick teases, the light catching on the glitter when he grins. He looks ethereal in the flickering light of the nearby torches, cast in dancing shadows that make his athletic build leaner, more fluid. “If anyone asks, those friends of mine had to leave suddenly and inexplicably. They did give me a _fantastic_ joke to pass along though. Ask me sometime about the trapezist that walks into a bar.” 

The jibe makes a smile break out on Tim’s lips, Dick’s ribbing humour contagious. It’s blessedly genuine, compared to the superficiality of the conversations flittering on around them. 

"Thank you," Tim says, and means it. 

Dick’s grin softens a few degrees. “Don’t mention it.” 

Tim nods, thanking the Avox that returns with two spindly glasses of faded pink champagne that smells tart and sizzles sweet on Tim’s tongue. “How have you been? I didn’t see you at the last party.” 

Dick drapes himself over the balustrade and casts an affected pout. “Why, I was lounging about in my mansion, watching that _darling_ interview of yours, Timmy! My Avox couldn’t bring me tissues fast enough, I was in hysterics!” 

Despite himself, Tim finds laughter bubbling in his throat at the dramatic pose Dick draws. The delivery is marred by the mischievous glint of his eyes, and Tim watches him slosh some of his champagne over the balcony in his haste to affect a new theatrical slump. 

“Careful,” he chastises, cheeks warm with mirth. “They’ll overhear us, and then we’ll be in trouble.” 

Dick snorts, a touch of bitterness to the sound as he sips at his flute. He leans lazily next to Tim, gaze flickering up to the star-spackled sky. “And I’m sure we’ll be given a punishment befitting misbehaving pets. All of our pretty dresses confiscated, maybe. Or they’ll send us back to our Districts to live out our lives in infamy; the golden victors mingling in with the workers - that’ll show those filthy commoners.” 

The smile is gone now, something hollower suckling at the mirth. “Could be worse.” 

Dick’s lips twitch, and he pauses a moment before lifting the flute to his lips again. “Could be worse,” he agrees solemnly. “But not by much.” 

Tim nods at that, casting his gaze back over the farce of festivities, wondering where Jason is. Whether he’s being accosted by Capitol citizens eager to oogle the Gamemakers’ muttation in the flesh. “At least the food is good.” 

Dick brows lift, and he nods. “The food is very good.” The customary gallows humour dispensed with, Dick turns to beam at Tim. “So what’s been happening in the thrilling life of our newest victors?” 

Closing his eyes to the barrage of torchlight, Tim tilts his neck open and savours the blessedly cool air for a minute. He’s never felt time fly so quickly; the last fortnight feels like a lifetime. In all honesty, he’s exhausted from being tugged from interview to interview. Tired of smiling out at hungry crowds. Tired of smiling up at a man who hates him. 

“Nothing much,” Tim says softly, and Dick takes it for what it is. And then, because Dick’s been at this game far longer than Tim, “Any idea what lovely little machination they’ve got planned next?” 

Dick squints thoughtfully and purses his lips. “Have they pulled the scandal card yet?” 

Tim arches a sequined brow. “I thought the enemies-to-lovers storyline _was_ the scandal.” 

“That’s just the aperitif. They always gun hard on the theme for the first few weeks. Then they switch to doubling down on something with some flavour. They eat it up around here; the rumour mill is their lifeblood.” 

Sipping down the artificial tang of cherries, Tim wonders what scandal they’d paraded out during Dick’s victory lap. It had only been perhaps six years back; Tim might even be able to get his hands on the tapes, if he asked. 

While Jason had been the dark horse of his original Games, Dick had been earmarked for glory from the reaping. A promising acrobat from District 7’s lumber forests, the handsome darling had taken Capitol hearts by storm. Dick had charmed his way through all of the pre-Games interviews, amassing a strong following of sponsors that hadn’t hesitated to send him copious tokens of their affection once he’d landed in the arena. 

Tim wonders how many of those ‘favours’ Dick’s managed to return in the half-decade since he escaped the bloodbath of the Games. Knowing how keen his own handful of sponsors were to see their generosity repaid, he has no qualms that the hordes were lining up to get their dividend of Dickie Grayson. 

It’s probably why Dick doesn’t talk about his Games often. He and Tim had fallen into quick rapport at the first party after Tim’s fateful flight from the arena. Tim hates to admit how quickly he’s come to rely on Dick’s genuity and compassion; he’s not sure how he’s ever going to repay the man. It sits bitter in Tim’s chest that he feels he needs to repay him at all. 

But a world away from the home he knows, and faced with an endless parade of false smiles, Tim appreciates the flame of authenticity that is Dick. The man knows how to play a crowd better than any instrument, and years pandering to crowds of Capitolites has given him a sixth sense for it. But beneath the carefully constructed veneer is a victor like Tim, cut off from his home and the people he knows, acting the docile lamb in a sea of wolves. 

“You’d better go find your lover before they start talking about us,” Dick suggests, nodding back towards the curtains and the party within. “Don’t want that sort of scandal coming between the Capitol’s favourite couple.” 

Tim picks at his sleeves, stalling perhaps. He sets his flute on the balustrade, and it’s whisked away by an Avox before Dick’s even finished straightening from his lean. “I’ll see you at the next party?” 

Dick gives him a wink, that glitter glimmering. “Give them your best.” 

* * *

Tim’s best is beginning to wear thin by the next week. He’s on edge, nervous for reasons he can’t entirely place. Dick’s words are hooked into the back of his mind, an omen that Tim can’t help but feel is about to come to fruition. 

He can almost feel people growing bored of their charade. Already, less than a month fresh out of the arena, and the Capitol is looking for its next fix. The ill-fated couple is just another story, chewed up and discarded once the flavour runs dry. 

Their producers have already started trying to spruce their act up. Pushing them to be more outrageous in interviews, to play up the adoration and affection Jason and Tim share for each other. Tim’s become quite a bit more acquainted with Jason’s lips in the past week, the kisses stretching into the minutes whenever they pose before a camera; and Jason’s no more friendly as soon as they turn their lens away. 

It’s their third party in as many days, and Tim’s feet are aching from his heels long before they even get to the second course of hors d'oeuvres. Jason flits from his side after the first hour; Tim has no idea where he manages to hide himself away for the duration of the party, but he envies the man’s ability to slip into the shadows and carve himself out some peace. All too often, Tim finds himself in a small crowd of admirers vying for his attention, passing him around like an intriguing heirloom. 

And with nauseating frequency, Ra’s injects himself into each conversation, a slim spectre that haunts Tim’s peripheral. 

Tim’s tittering between two enthusiastic women intent on each claiming his attention for themselves, when Ra’s presses quietly into the exchange with aloof curiosity. Tim already feels pulled in every direction, tugged to and fro by the cheerfully bickering women, ears ringing from the chatter. It’s no wonder he feels a little blindsided when Ra’s segues. 

“I had thought you might lose your appeal, Timothy,” he announces above the simpering. A glass of burgundy wine swills in his palm as he smirks. “But once again, you’ve proven yourself a tantalising showman.” 

He doesn’t have the time to dissect that before the women occupying his right nods emphatically. “I know! I was just starting to grow tired of all the interviews; how many times can we watch that big, violent brute monopolise our gorgeous Timmy’s time before one’s driven to violence?” 

Tim smiles weakly and tries, for the fifth time, unsuccessfully, to extract himself from the grip of her green acrylic nails. He gives his practiced line, “There’s no one for me but Jason, I’m afraid.” 

“Oh we _know,_ ” the woman chirps with a roll of her eyes. She looks bored by the statement, but there’s a simmering heat beneath her tone that Tim’s come to associate with brewing rumour, so he steels himself to dispute it. “That’s the problem, sweetheart. Some of us want you all to ourselves.” 

“Perhaps it’s the denial that makes the prize so appealing,” Ra’s suggests, and the woman croons an agreement. Tim fights back a scowl, aware that the man is only stoking the embers to get a rise out of him. Not for the first time, he wonders where Dick is at opportune moments like this. 

Avoiding Tim’s waylaying suitors, perhaps. He finally manages to extract his arm, and falls immediately into the trap of the woman on his left, who winds around its twin limb like a python. “It’s just not fair to the rest of us; we all want our fair share, Tim.” 

Tim tries to shrug, masking his increasingly desperate attempts to escape in the motion. He smiles consolingly at the woman, and tries not to let the coldness touch his gaze. “We’re a package deal, unfortunately.” 

“Yes, yes, I suppose that’s a consolation,” the green-nailed lady whines. “If we can’t have you, at least we can have the next best thing.” Her gaze lights, the curl of her lips coy. Tim tries to shove down the feeling of his skin trying to crawl off his bones, and questions whether he’d be allowed to leave if he made a break for it now. “Our own little slice of the enemies-to-lovers romance. Behind closed doors, if you know what I mean.” 

From the waggle of her tattooed brows, Tim deduces he’s supposed to know what that implies. He gives her a quizzical but good-natured smile and tries to remember if he’d agreed to any new, tell-all interviews this week. 

“Some doors are best left closed,” Tim hedges when nothing surfaces in his recollection. 

The woman laughs, tossing back a lock of stray hair where it curls down to her shoulder. “I should hope not! Otherwise I spent all that money on a ticket for nothing.” 

This time, Tim’s frown is definitely confused. The heated air is pressing on his skull, a headache beginning to pound behind his eyes that the buzz of alcohol is doing nothing to stifle. “I don’t follow.” 

“Oh,” the woman croons. “He’s bashful. Can’t fault you that, darling; I’d be nervous for my first time too.” 

“First time?” Tim asks, gaze flickering between the circle of faces, as if someone would be kind enough to fill him in. He knows better by now, though. 

“I can’t wait for the broadcast,” the woman to his left squeals, nudging into Tim. “You must be so excited. I bought my ticket as soon as they announced it.” 

Tim blinks, stunned and lost. “The broadcast?” 

“Haven’t you heard, my dear victor?” Ra’s purrs, all pointed teeth, and Tim shakes his head. 

The woman laughs, bright and saccharine. “Of course you’d be the last to know! That’s just the way these things always go.” 

Ra’s gaze doesn’t part from Tim, drinking down every minute reaction as his glass hovers by his lower lip. “They’ve scheduled an exclusive broadcast for your first coupling.” 

“Coupling?” Tim repeats, frowning. 

The woman entwines her arm with Tim’s, leaning into his side as Ra’s sips. “Isn’t it exciting? You get to share your first time with everyone. You’re going to be the talk of the town. I’m so jealous!” 

Ice is beginning to creep into Tim’s veins, slow and malicious. “My first time?” he repeats, dumbfounded. 

“Sex, my dear victor,” Ra’s purrs, caressing the syllables in a way that makes the hairs on the back of Tim’s neck rise. “You did mention you’re virginal in your last interview, did you not? I’m sure your producers just wanted to make the most of the momentous occasion.” 

Static is beginning to fill Tim’s ears, his jaw aching with the pressure of clenching it shut. He manages to grit out, “Jason and I. We’re going to have sex? And they’re going to- broadcast it?” 

Ra’s smile is nothing but patronising. “I purchased my ticket this morning.” 

Bile rises, hot and cloying, in Tim’s throat. He swallows hard against the rush of acid, slipping his arm from the woman’s as he bleats, numb, “Excuse me.” 

He reels backward under their confused gazes, head swinging to locate an exit. The crowds are thick in the dining room, but Tim stutters apologies as he elbows his way through the throng. He spots Dick in one corner, glass raised to a toast he’s not listening to, blue eyes trailing Tim with concern, and turns away. 

He finds himself in the pebbled garden, staggering towards a vacated bench just off the pathway. Tim’s hands are shaking, his breaths coming in choked gulps that never make it to his lungs. 

Dick sweeps out of the party then, gaze swinging to fall on Tim as he beelines for the trembling man. Tim folds down onto the bench when Dick reaches him, knees weak and head spinning. 

The older victor slides down between Tim’s heels and wraps his hands over Tim’s knees. “Breathe, you’re alright.” 

Tim shakes his head, but squeezes his eyes shut. It only makes the nausea swell, the cold night air doing little to combat the perspiration that beads across Tim’s brow. Absurdly, deliriously, his first thought is for his foundation. 

He hiccups a mirthless laugh, the thickness in his throat swelling to press behind his eyes and in his nose. Dick’s brow pinches, thumb stroking over Tim’s trousers. 

“It’s alright,” Dick murmurs, watching him shudder and bow beneath the weight of the panic. “You can cry, Tim, I’ll make sure you’re cleaned up afterwards.” 

He does, the first sob cresting over his lips to breach the night. Concern blooms on Dick’s features, like he wasn’t actually believing Tim was that far gone, and he shifts forward to grip Tim’s shoulder with bruising force. 

“Just cry,” Dick advises him, and Tim does, bowing forward into the man’s embrace. “Let it out.” 

Dick stays with him until he manages to quieten his sobs to ugly little hiccups, burying his sniffling in the serviette Dick offers him. The man sits with him the whole while, a hovering guardian while Tim tries to curb his panic. 

“You’re alright,” Dick says gently, once Tim’s quiet again. A hand strokes his calf, and then Dick shifts to sit down next to him. “Deep breath, you’re okay. Tell me what happened.” 

“They’re planning a-” 

After a moment of choked silence, Dick presses, “Take your time, I’ll wait with you.” 

“They’re broadcasting it,” Tim says bleakly, and Dick’s brow knits. 

“Broadcasting what?” 

“My and Jason’s first time,” Tim spits, bitter, anxiety twisting his lungs. “We’re going to have sex, apparently. On camera. Exclusively, for all the sponsors to see.” 

The panic floods in again, beckoned in by the words. Tim buries his head between his knees and focuses on breathing. 

After a moment, he feels Dick’s palm pressing between his bared shoulder blades, massaging soothing circles into his flushed skin. 

“It’s not as bad as you’re working it up to be,” he says softly, his tone gentle. 

Tim tries to force a laugh out of his tight lungs, but it gets tangled in his throat. “It’s going to _hurt._ ” 

“It doesn’t have to,” Dick reassures. “With the proper preparation-” 

“They don’t want preparation,” Tim hisses bleakly. “Preparation doesn’t make for compelling television. They want-” But he can’t say anything more before his throat swells shut on the words. 

Dick sighs, fatigue touching his eyes above the smear of glitter and sequins. His grip shifts down to encircle Tim’s forearm, imparting companionship with the sweep of that thumb. “You’re going to be okay, Tim. You’ll live.” 

“I don’t want to do it,” Tim chokes out. “I don’t-” 

“You don’t get a choice,” Dick says, his tone so uncharacteristically joyless that it gives Tim pause. He lifts his eyes to the hard line of Dick’s jaw, the far off look in his eyes, pinched around remorse and loss. 

Realisation creeps into Tim like a chill, inexplicably washing the tension from his shoulders. Replacing it with sympathy, and undirected loathing. 

When Dick looks down at him, his eyes are shining, and it has nothing to do with the glitter or his thin smile. 

“You’re going to be okay,” he says gently, thumb stroking the bone of Tim’s wrist. “I promise you. You’ll live, you will. You can trust me on that.” 

“I’m sorry,” Tim croaks. 

Dick laughs, releasing Tim’s arm to catch the swell of a tear before it can fall and ruin his make up. He sniffs, offering Tim a watery smile. “Don’t be, Timmy. It’s been years since I had to- Well.” 

He swallows, throat working, and Tim yearns to comfort him. Can’t think of any way that he can without contributing to their shared commiseration. Dick lifts his chin, summoning some sort of resolve from his depthless stores. 

“It’s only Slade now,” he says with a shrug. “That’s manageable. And he’s not all bad either. I can make it work. And I’m alive,” Dick adds, some of that fierce electricity touching his bright blue eyes. “That’s what matters most. Remember that, Tim. That’s all that matters.” 

“Is it?” Tim asks, horror rising the longer he thinks about it. He wonders if Jason’s been told, if he reacted with the same disgust as Tim. If he _didn’t,_ and the possibility makes bile linger in Tim’s throat. 

“It’s worth it, to stay alive,” Dick says sternly. There’s a tightness to his jaw, but his hand is soft where it strokes up Tim’s spine, comforting. “You’ve done it before, we all have. This is just another Games.” 

“This is worse,” Tim whispers. 

“I know,” Dick agrees, tone soft. “But it will just be one broadcast, and then you’ll be done.” 

Panic swells, cresting in Tim’s lungs to drown his breaths. “What if it’s not? What if they want to see-” 

Dick shakes his head. “They won’t.” 

“You don’t _know-_ ” 

“ _Trust me,_ Tim,” Dick says through a bitter smirk, “when they’ve seen it once, they’ve seen it all. They don’t really want you or Jason; they want the allure. Once they’ve gotten it, they’ll move onto their next big fix, and they’ll cut you loose. You won’t have to play their perfect couple any more; you’ll be old news.” 

The bitter acid doesn’t recede. “We just have to fuck. On live television. For the Capitol, for _Ra’s_ -” 

“Don’t think about them,” Dick advises, massaging Tim’s shoulder. “Don’t. It won’t make it any easier. Just do what you can to make this easiest on yourself. It’ll pass faster than you know it, trust me. And you have something to look forward to on the other side. I promise that helps, more than you know.” 

Tim thinks about spending the rest of his days at Jason’s side, trapped in this farce of a relationship with the man he’ll soon be forced to share his most intimate self with. Like he hasn’t given the cameras enough already. 

“Do you like Jason?” 

The question catches him off-guard, and Tim’s head jerks around. “What?” 

“Jason,” Dick repeats, watching him with an unreadable look. “Do you like him?” 

“Like him how?” Tim asks, brow furrowing. 

“Do you find him attractive?” Dick presses lightly. 

The vice starts to squeeze around Tim’s lungs again, unrelenting. “What difference does that make?” 

Dick grimaces, the expression half-distaste and half-consideration. “It does help, in my experience. There’s certainly worse people than Jason.” 

Tim disagrees. For more reasons than just the fact that Jason literally had Tim’s blood on his hands three weeks ago. “I don’t think the person matters.” 

Dick barks a hollow laugh. “I’d disagree with you there, Tim; they most certainly do. As far as appearances go, I’d say Jason is a fair sight more attractive than some of my earlier conquests.” 

Tim disregards that as quickly as he digests it, unwilling to let the words linger. He shakes himself loose of the guilt and says, “I don’t care that Jason’s attractive.” 

“You should. It makes it easier to get things moving.” 

“I don’t like Jason like that. I don’t like anyone like that.” 

“You don’t know him,” Dick allows. “But it’s better than a stranger.” 

He doesn't know why Dick's so caught on this, is trying to rationalise it, like _they_ would. It makes betrayed anger rise swiftly with Tim's temper, a hurt quality edging into his tone. 

“Is it?” Tim spits, tone abruptly violent. “Isn’t it better to have a stranger to fuck than someone who’s tried to kill me? Or does Jason’s attractiveness balance that out?” 

Dick expression is reticent. “I didn’t mean-” 

“I don’t care what you mean,” Tim snarls, shoving to his feet. The panic has given way to energy, the sizzling need to act, to intervene, to destroy. The only thing within Tim’s reach is the man sitting on the bench beside him. “I’m not _you,_ Dick, I can’t just fuck every sponsor who looks my way and walk away like it’s _nothing._ ” 

Those blue eyes harden to the consistency of ice, a violence to the twitch of Dick’s lips. His features remain carefully neutral though, chillingly calm in the face of Tim’s fury. When Dick speaks, it’s with a painstakingly measured tone. 

“You’re hurting. I understand that. And I understand that you wouldn’t have said those words if you were in control of yourself right now. But I’m the only person on your side, Tim, and the only comfort I can offer you is the promise that you _will get through this._ And as far as shitty, reprehensible circumstances go, you are _not_ scraping the bottom of the barrel with Jason.” 

“I don’t fucking care if you think he’s attractive, Dick,” Tim hisses, gravel crunching beneath his heels when he takes a step forward. The man on the bench doesn’t flinch. “It doesn’t make the _slightest_ difference to me.” 

“I’m not talking about appearances, Tim,” Dick answers coldly. “From everything you’ve told me about him, Jason sounds like a decent fucking person, which is more than I can say for any other person in this goddamn city. Including all the people who would _kill_ for the opportunity to share your first bed.” 

Tim does flinch at that implication, and Dick claims the surrendered ground. 

“Jason’s in the same boat as you. I doubt he’s going to enjoy this any more than you will. So try to take some solace in the fact that you’re in this together. There’s someone who understands. It’ll make it easier.” 

“I don’t understand _why,_ ” Tim spits, rattling apart. Dick rises to his feet to steady Tim, his knees shaking beneath the force of his rage and his spite and his grief. “Why are they like this? Why do they want this?” 

“Because this is the only form of love they know,” Dick answers. “They’re deranged, psychopathic, voyeuristic _fucks,_ and the show is all they know. And they’re going to make sure you play their games. Your consent doesn’t even register to them.” 

His words are a whisper, his voice hoarse. “But it’s _mine._ It’s _my_ body, it’s my- my-” 

“I know.” 

“How can they feel so _entitled-_ ” 

“They’re born with it, the entitlement.” Dick presses him back down into a sit, letting the stone bench take Tim’s weight. Tim goes easily, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him. “We’re just commodities to them, not people. There’s no glory to be gained in trying to defy their games. We know that better than anyone. Play their game; beat them at it. Do this,” Dick says, and grips Tim’s shoulder hard, like he’s trying to brand the earnestness of his words into Tim’s flesh, “and then you’re free, Tim. You won’t be theirs anymore.” 

Tim meets his blue gaze, holds that desperation, and lets it settle sour on the back of his tongue. “Is it worth this price though?” he begs. 

Dick’s smile is watery and weak, but his words are genuine. “No. It never will be. But you’ll pay it anyway.” 

* * *

Tim’s bundled through four hours of preparation and makeup by his design team. They scrub him clean inside and out, until every nerve is alight and he feels like he’s burning from the flesh down. They pluck and shave and wax every inch of him, smear lotion and concealer over Tim’s body until he doesn’t even recognise the colour of his own skin anymore. 

It’s mesmerising, in a detached way, how much effort they put into concealing even Tim’s most naked self. He’s spent weeks being squeezed into outfits and being lathered with makeup. He’d sort of expected this encounter to be more… natural, in a way. 

As with everything else to do with this godforsaken broadcast, Tim realises just how naive he’s been. 

If he’d held any fleeting hope that it would be an intimate procedure, that fantasy is crushed at the sight of the full production array set up in the master bedroom of their manor. Tim falters to a stop in the doorway, gaze flickering from lights to camera to crew with numb dejection. Arms wrapped tight around the thin satin gown they’d thrown him last minute on a whim, to ‘draw out the reveal’ as long as possible. 

He lingers and tries to steel himself, impossibly, for what’s to come. 

Jason looks nauseous with guilt when Tim spots him, all but rattling out of his skin where he hovers behind the camera crew. When he sees Tim he stalks across the tile with a pinched brow, and all Tim can do is swallow down his breath at how big the man is. 

His neck hurts. 

Jason’s palms circle underneath his stiff wrists, and Tim resists the urge to pull away when they squeeze reassuringly. “I’m sorry,” are the first words out of Jason’s mouth, and Tim risks a glance up at his expression. 

He looks genuinely repentant, his features underscored by a resigned, numb horror that Tim can feel in his bones. He has the sudden urge to reach up and unfurrow that brow with the flat of his thumb, but Tim quashes it. 

“I didn’t know,” Jason implores, earnest in a way that ratchets Tim’s ribcage tighter. “I swear, I had no idea that they would do this.” 

“It’s okay,” Tim replies, and he’s so tired of reassuring people. So tired of lying. 

When he tries to pull away, to head towards the crew waiting to receive him, Jason’s grip tightens and jerks him to a sudden halt. 

“No, it’s not,” he all but growls. Tim’s knocked breathless by the concern in his voice. “It’s never going to be. And I’m going to have to live with knowing that I… did _that_ to you, for the rest of my life. So I need you to know, now, from _me,_ that I’m so sorry. That I wouldn’t ever wish this upon you, least of all from me.” 

It’s the most empathetic Tim’s ever seen Jason, and a small part of him is a little disappointed that it had to come to this before Jason decides he was worth his sympathy. He tries to hold onto it when he gives Jason a weak but reassuring smile. 

All he can think about as Jason’s hand falls back to his sides is the man’s fall as the revered mutt of the Gamemakers, Tim’s aggressive almost-murderer, brought to heel by his fortuitous love for his own victim. Thinks about how many people were disappointed to see Tim survive. Thinks about how many of them have been waiting to see an inkling of Jason’s ‘true’ character. Thinks about how much the director will play into the whims of the crowd and let loose Jason’s violent side. Whether it’s fabricated or not. 

It had felt real enough in the arena. 

He shudders at the thought, curling around the nausea. He’d thrown up what remained of his bile this morning, fed some sort of diuretic that had cleansed his system in preparation for the big event. Clean inside and out. Tim swallows down on emptiness. 

“I wouldn’t wish this on you either,” Tim whispers dully, and it’s not an apology, or even really an acknowledgement, but Jason understands it anyway. 

His hand lifts, fingers gentle when they trace over Tim’s wrist, an echo of Dick’s reassuring strokes. Jason’s so much more tentative, so unsure, and Tim’s only thought is that they’d have eaten him alive if he’d ever made it out of that arena alone. 

“We’ll get through this,” Tim says, and pauses to glance over at the bed. The same one Jason has slipped out of every other night they’ve been together. There’s an irony in his attendance tonight. “We have to.” 

The only thing Jason can say is, “I’m sorry.” 

The next two hours pass unremarkably. 

Jason is whisked off by his design team, presumably to receive the same treatment. Tim is pulled into the hallway to shoot some impromptu television spots, something to “whet everyone’s appetite”, as the director assures him. 

Inexplicably, the familiarity of it is grounding; Tim knows the role he’s supposed to play here. It’s easier to pull on the mask of the Capitol’s victor. He can wear the persona like a suit of armour, pretend it’s not even him who’ll be climbing into that bed alongside Jason. 

It doesn’t make it reasonable, but it does make it palatable. Tim will take small mercies. 

The lights have dimmed somewhat by the time he’s ushered back to the doorway. There’s crew sequestered into every available corner of the room, crouched amongst the equipment, silent, greedy spectators to what’s about to unfold. It just reminds Tim of his audience beyond the lens, and he forces himself to numb at the inevitability of it all as a hand in the small of his back nudges him forwards. 

Jason’s sprawled back in a lean against the headboard, one arm hooked behind his neck, and the silk sheets pooled over his manhood. His legs and chest are bare - all of him is, Tim realises when he approaches the bed. 

There’s a sourness to his expression, something violent in the clench of his jaw, but it softens with resigned sympathy when Tim stops beside him. 

The connection crackles in Tim’s earpiece, the one he’d been fitted with before the broadcast had started, the twin of the one in Jason’s own ear. The director’s modulated voice filters through to prompt, “Jason.” 

Jason shoves the sheets down dispassionately, and Tim’s gaze flicks down on automatic when his skin is bared. His cock is slick, shining faintly beneath the staged production lights, blood gathering in the exposed tip. Tim realises belatedly that Jason’s prepared himself, even if the length is flagging somewhat beneath the unwanted attention. 

It reminds him that Jason is just as unwilling as he is here, with even more incentive to perform than Tim. All Tim has to do is lie there and take it; his enjoyment is secondary to how good of a show he puts on. Jason has to provide evidence of their coupling, some genuine response to their arousal. Paint it over the inside of Tim’s thighs as proof. 

The nausea barely rocks him, and Tim swallows, letting his shoulders slump into the persona he’s worked hard to maintain over the past month. Jason seems to recognise the shift, because even he settles into something more palatable, his expression open and inviting. 

Waiting, for Tim to make the first move. To christen this abhorrent show. 

“Climb on the bed, Tim, slowly,” the director says in his ear, and Tim forces his muscles to move him. “Show some thigh as you- Yes, good, very good.” 

He leans his weight into the knee he’s placed on the sheets, letting the satin of his robe part to reveal his waxed thigh. It’s been painted with some sort of faint glitter, lotion rubbed into his skin until it’s soft and supple in the light. It all strikes Tim as horrifically artificial. 

“Crawl over to Jason.” Tim’s aware of the cameras shifting, a faint whir in his periphery as he curls his hands into the sheets and crawls towards the man sat at the headboard. “Sway your hips a bit more, can I get a close up on-” 

The voice cuts out, the director’s attention elsewhere, but Tim doesn’t need the direction to know there’s a camera focused on his ass right now, framing the way the robe shifts and shares a tantalising glimpse of what’s to come. Wonders if any of the lotion he’d haphazardly slicked himself with is visible as the satin rides up over one cheek. 

It’s demeaning, dehumanising. Even after spending the last few weeks simpering and performing for the Capitol’s entertainment, Tim’s never felt objectification like he feels now. He can’t fathom how his expression can be anything but disconcerting as he crawls slowly up the mattress to Jason. 

Jason’s own expression is carefully masked concern, the furrow of his brow smoothing into hollow arousal. It’s not real, not genuine, just an approximation of what he thinks they want to see. 

“Jason, we want you to say-” 

“Hey, handsome,” Jason coaches, verbatim, and peppers it with a slow, sultry smile. If nothing else, Jason knows how to smile. Tim forces himself to keep his gaze on the man’s lips, avoid the quagmire of his eyes. “Been waiting a while for this, baby. You really held out on me.” 

Tim straightens when he’s between Jason’s thighs, shuffling the last few inches to hook his knees over the man’s lap. Jason’s hands fall to Tim’s hips, gripping his asscheeks hard on their voyeur’s cue, to yank Tim into his lap. 

Tim doesn’t quite manage to stifle the soft whimper when he’s spread over Jason’s lap, his lashes fluttering at the mortification. Jason’s grip eases slightly, his voice soothing where it should be husky. 

“Can’t wait to take you apart, baby.” 

The apology is there, in tone if not in words, and Tim forces himself to draw in a centering breath, nodding infinitesimally. 

Jason gives him the barest nod in return, an acknowledgement that he’s not alone in this, as one hand shifts up to smother between Tim’s shoulder blades and guide him forwards. Tim’s palms fall naturally to Jason’s broad shoulders, chin lowering until he can meet the man’s lips. 

They’re soft, gentle where they brush against Tim’s. Absently, Tim wonders if this is Jason’s first kiss, whether they’ve stolen that from him too, like they have Tim. 

Jason shifts, head tilting to press more insistently into him, and Tim realises after a moment that his own lips are fused shut. He opens them on a breath, and a hot tongue swipes over his lower lip. Tim chases it with his own, hesitant and fumbling. 

Jason’s hand sweeps up from his shoulder blades to thread through Tim’s hair, cup his scalp to guide him down into the kiss, and Tim tries to fall into his instruction. Jason’s fingers shift, tightening in his locks to turn him this way and that. Tim tries to keep his mouth open and chase Jason’s tongue with his own, mimic the twist of the other man’s as he licks Tim open. 

When his breaths start coming in short little hiccups, and Tim starts to shift to reclaim some air, Jason’s hand falls immediately from his scalp. His lips drop to Tim’s chin, giving him the reprieve he needs to draw in a steadying lungful. Chase back the panic gripping tight to his ribs. 

It doesn’t escape Tim’s notice that Jason’s wandering lips block most of the cameras too. He wonders why the man would bother, when their audience has seen so much of them already. 

But it’s a reprieve, and Tim will take whatever small mercies he’s permitted. They rarely last long. 

“Jason, undress him.” 

The sound of Tim’s breath stopping must be audible, but Jason doesn’t pause to acknowledge it, covering the sound of Tim’s faint horror with the slip of his hands down Tim’s sides to rest on his hips. 

Jason waits, jaw tight and eyes fixed high, safe, on Tim’s collarbones. 

Something gives in Tim then; the realisation that it’s going to happen one way or another. That the price of their freedom has been bartered and set, and all that’s left is for them to pay it. Something beneath his ribs gives way, lungs deflating in the blistering silence as the bright lights scrape the intimacy from his skin and Jason’s palms grip him tight. 

Tim shifts, broadening his stance, aware that it catches Jason off-guard for the barest moment. His trembling, long fingers fall from the larger man’s shoulders to the delicate knot at his waist, manicured nails dipping into the satin tie to ease it apart. 

It falls away from him like water, the sheer material caressing Tim’s back as it slides down to pool on his calves, baring him for the cameras and the world and Jason. 

Jason’s breath catches, and Tim looks up. 

For an absurd moment, Tim thinks he might see the scars, the reminders of Tim’s time in the arena. And then he remembers the hours he’s spent in makeup, concealing everything deeper than skin surface, and swallows a choppy little laugh. 

Jason’s thumb strokes tentatively over the arch of Tim’s hip, drawing goosebumps, and Tim can’t stand the farce of intimacy it threatens. He can’t bring himself to rush this along either, knows if he doesn’t draw out the performance to their audience’s satisfaction, they’ll just demand a repeat display. 

Tim doesn’t want to do this ever again, if he can help it. 

There’s something empowering about his nakedness, the last shred of privacy stripped from him. Tim’s resolve settles then, somewhere in the pit of his stomach, the knowledge that there’s nothing more he has left to himself. 

He shifts, dragging the dainty robe - white, virginal; there was no question what sort of optics their design team was aiming for - to the edge of the mattress and letting it drop to the floor. 

Jason’s eyes haven’t parted from him, though he has the decency to look Tim in the eye, rather than the rest of him, bared. 

So Tim lets his gaze drop to Jason’s half-hard member, untouched between them. His fingertips must be cold when he lowers them tentatively to the head, because Jason’s stomach pulls in on a sharp breath, his legs hitching in tandem. Tim sures his grip, uncaring for whatever instruction their director is sure to helpfully dispense, as he prepares to move this charade along. 

Jason’s gaze does fall to watch Tim’s hand then, as he strokes Jason slowly, perhaps on the edge of too firmly, to full hardness. There’s an efficiency to his movements, but after a moment Tim lifts his gaze to Jason’s lips. He’s not sure why they’re the tell he looks for, but they part on a soft breath when Tim adjusts his grip to slip a thumb over the head. 

“Slower,” the voice in Tim’s ear murmurs, and Tim grits his teeth on the loathing that licks up his sternum. But he does, taking his time to smear precum over his palm, slick the whole length of Jason’s length up. He’s not sure whether they intend to give Tim any lube to work with, so he’ll work with whatever he’s able. 

Apparently they do, because after another moment of mechanically caressing Jason’s now upright cock, the director suggests, “Top drawer,” and Jason leans over to investigate. 

Tim allows himself the moment’s rest, takes a deep breath as Jason rattles around and retrieves whatever it is he’s been instructed to. Lube, he hopes; a condom might be asking too much. 

Without the distraction of the task at hand, Tim’s forced to confront exactly the girth and length of Jason’s hard member, jutting impressively toward Tim’s navel. The head is flushed and pink, Tim’s hand slick where it still wraps just beneath. He can just close his fingers around if he squeezes, but that draws a tight breath from Jason’s lungs, so Tim relinquishes him and tries to ignore the implication. 

Tries to think about anything other than how he’s possibly going to be able to _fit_ that thing _inside_ him. 

It is indeed lube, Tim notes distantly, when Jason rights himself. His fingers are slick and shiny in the light, replacing Tim’s own to prepare his cock. Tim wonders, hysterically, whether he’s allowed to ask for some preparation, or whether that would kill the mood. 

He just barely schools his expression, some muddled grimace of humour and despair. 

Jason’s breath is coming a little more laboured now, as those blue irises flick up to hold Tim’s. 

“Turn him over,” comes the expected instruction, and Tim clenches his jaw. 

Jason does it efficiently, at least. Tim’s nearly grateful that they don’t have to linger on the exchange, as Jason takes both of Tim’s hips in his broad palms - they’re cold and wet against his skin, and it’s almost enough to distract from the memory of Tim staring up at Jason, the soft grass beneath his back, dew seeping into his shirt, a night sky bellowing above them as Jason draws his knife- 

Jason’s hands slip lower, stroking down Tim’s trembling thighs, and then back up. He realises he’s shaking, his fingers white where they bite into Jason’s biceps above him. 

The man can’t speak, can’t ask, so Tim doesn’t answer the unspoken question. 

He just steels himself and tosses his head back into the pillow to vent the anxiety that wants to rip across his features, and parts his legs willingly. 

Jason takes it for the plea that it is, sliding a cursory hand beneath Tim’s balls, skirting them over his rim in a motion that Tim’s sure he’s going to be reprimanded for later. But it smears the last of the lube between Tim’s cheeks, and then Jason shifts forward on his knees to meet Tim’s beckon. 

The first nudge of his cockhead against Tim’s hole reminds Tim just how tightly he’s wound. How every muscle is concentrated on clamping down, on forcing the larger man out, _away,_ and he focuses on relaxing. Tries to remember what Dick had suggested to ease the way, and starts counting his breaths. 

They still hitch around a soft little whimper when Jason’s hand falls to guide himself inside. It’s broad, a spearhead between Tim’s legs, piercing through his entrance in a way that is distinctly unpleasant. Tim shifts to vent the urge to kick up the mattress, angles his feet flat against the sheets and tries to adjust himself as best he can. Rues the fact that they chose _this_ position, where all of Tim is bared for every inquisitive lens. 

Jason eases forward another inch, the slide slicked but brutally unfamiliar. The press is uncomfortable, inescapable, and Tim wants nothing more than for him to slam in and be _done_ with it. Knows, in the more rational parts of him, that Jason’s just trying to spare him the pain, and consciously unwinds every muscle he has. 

It does help, a little. The glide definitely improves the further Jason presses in, the last few inches manageable once the thickest part passes. Tim feels the nudge of Jason’s thighs against him, is vaguely aware of how _full_ he feels down there, of how he’s not sure he can shift his legs without shattering around the girth. 

Jason pets at his hip hesitantly, his other hand rising to stroke a calloused thumb along the underside of Tim’s cock. The friction draws a sharp gasp from him, makes him arch into the sensation, and the new angle shifts the cock inside him, makes Tim horrifically conscious of how stuck he is. 

Two fingers, and then four, circle his flagging cock, teasing him back to fullness as Tim breathes deep and squirms on the sheets. The sensations are… conflicting. Light, coaxing strokes that pull heat down into Tim’s gut. The overhot presence of fullness within him, radiating out to meet it. 

It leaves him a little breathless. Leaves Tim entirely unsure what he’s expected to do. 

He’s fairly certain he misses an instruction in his dazed state, because then Jason shifts, that stiffness dragging, and Tim’s breath is _sharp._ Jason can’t stop, doesn’t dare, but then he’s pushing back in, testing the give of Tim’s channel. It’s not until the second slow thrust that Tim concedes it’s becoming easier, his body adjusting to the intrusion, fitting him around it. 

It feels debilitatingly lackluster. Not from any fault of Jason’s, he’s sure; but something in Tim shrivels at the realisation that this is it. 

He’s not sure if it’s the evaporation of his supposed virginity, or just the complete lack of attraction he feels for the man inside him, but Tim slumps into the acknowledgement that this isn’t what he thought it would be, and could never be. 

It helps, somewhat. Knowing that it’s not some huge, overwhelming feat. The mundaneness is easier to digest, less obtrusive to swallow down. 

As he splays out on the sheets, Jason’s rhythm slowly increasing to more meaningful thrusts, Tim admits to himself that he can do this. He knows the mechanical aspects, the anatomy of his own body where it meets Jason’s. Knows the outcome, knows the steps to reach it. Without the threat of intimacy, of overwhelming emotion to muddle the senses, it’s almost palatable. 

Tim let’s his hands lift tentatively to Jason’s forearms, and then to his biceps, when Jason responds with a more directed pivot. It pushes him up the bed an inch, making Tim’s lungs tighten with the force behind it, and he digs his heels down, leverages down to meet Jason in the middle. 

There’s something to the drag, the motion stirring Tim’s cock where it now lays hard across his belly. Jason’s hands are on his hips, pulling him down to meet each rock of Jason’s own. Punching the heat up into him, until Tim’s stomach is simmering with the sensation. 

It’s detachedly pleasant, almost. Tim could almost get used to the pitch and roll between his thighs, the motion rhythmic. For the barest moment, Tim is wholly concerned with his own enjoyment, and not the interest of a thousand unseen eyes. 

“Give us something more energetic,” the director drawls in both their ears. “Jason, we need you to be more aggressive.” 

Jason’s jaw clenches briefly, the displeasure unwinding immediately as he shifts. Broadens his stance and rolls his hips up into Tim. The slide is vaguely uncomfortable, the motion dispassionate, and Tim can practically feel their audience slipping. 

Hates that here, with a stranger between his thighs, _inside him,_ his first thought is of how well they’re performing. 

He drags in a shaky inhale, letting his knees fall open as his head tips back. Moans soft and simpering, just how he knows they want to hear him, and closes his eyes. 

It’s almost bearable with his eyes closed. Tim can distance himself from it, process it with clinical analysis. 

“Kiss his throat, Jason.” 

Tim wishes he could tear out that earpiece, that shattering reminder that they’re being graded on their performance. 

Jason leans down to mouth at Tim’s windpipe, pepper a kiss every time he pulls out and slips back in. Tim pulls his knees up and hooks them over the arches of Jason’s hipbones. 

The angle improves the drag, and when Jason responds, melding into him, the head of his cock scrapes something that sucks the air out of Tim’s lungs. Jason pauses, the barest misstep, to analyse Tim’s reaction. Wary of hurting him, perhaps. Tim nearly laughs at the idea. 

But then Jason adjusts, repeating the motion with attentive care, and stars burst across the backs of Tim’s eyelids. 

That’s all the encouragement Jason needs to hone in on that spot and set a new, more focused rhythm. He buries himself between Tim’s hips, rolling forward to aim with each stroke. Tim grunts and hooks his ankles together in the small of Jason’s back. 

When that doesn’t satisfy him, he squeezes hard with his calves, arching his back to improve the angle, and the force of Jason’s thrust shoves a shout from his throat. 

Tim’s nails bite into Jason’s biceps, his jaw falling open on the mewl he releases. He’s not certain how much is carefully constructed enthusiasm and how much is just his body reacting to the repetitive stimulus, but Tim clenches down on the sensation. 

Jason bites down a groan, head bowing and lips finding Tim’s collarbones, nibbling along the length of them. 

“That’s it,” the director encourages, relief evident even with the modulation. “Good, Jason, reach for the headboard. Tim, kiss him.” 

Jason does as he’s instructed, one hand fumbling for purchase on the headboard and gripping tight with a force that should be splintering. There’s sweat gathered on his skin now, his lips parted to draw in short little breaths. 

Tim pries his nails out of Jason’s skin to twine them through his dark hair. Yanks him down to meet Tim’s lips, and swallows down the man’s breaths. Jason responds belatedly, distracted by the way Tim squeezes down on him and rolls to meet Jason’s thrusts. 

His free hand returns to Tim’s cock, tugging harshly, slicking quickly with Tim’s arousal. He can feel that familiar crescendo building, hitched higher with every thrust in irregular, jerking notches, until Tim’s sure just one more will send him toppling over. 

Jason’s thrusts are erratic now, a desperate purpose to the way he drives into Tim, rocks them both up the mattress. Tim gasps and pants and lets harsh little, “ah, ah, ah”’s drop from his lips. Closes his eyes on the sensation as he arches into it, winding tight and letting himself spill over Jason’s palm. 

Above him, Jason grunts, the sound surprised and offbeat as he stutters. Tim slumps into his own orgasm, the warmth joined by a heat inside him, and he’s vaguely aware of Jason coming. 

He floats on the edges of his afterglow, content to ignore the wet warmth between his thighs as Jason shifts to all fours over him. His breaths are just as hot, fanning across Tim’s collarbones when he drops his head. A few beads of sweat drip onto Tim’s chest, coaxing his eyes open. 

Jason plants a few last, sloppy kisses to the hollow of Tim’s throat, none of his earlier care present. If Tim had to guess, he’d say Jason wants out of this charade before the bliss of his climax starts to dissipate. 

For once, he doesn’t disagree with the man. Especially when Jason shifts, his soft cock easing out of Tim, and he’s violently aware of the wetness between his cheeks, of how slick his hole is in the cool air. There’s come on his stomach too, smeared beneath the head of Tim’s own spent cock, and he suddenly wants nothing more than to be clean. 

“Love you,” Jason slurs into Tim’s skin, and he freezes. 

Jason’s head lifts, a resignation in those dull blue eyes, tainted with caged self-loathing. Whatever thin strings of resolve had been holding Tim together through this ordeal snap like steel cords, ricocheting off into the dark, raw parts of him. Whipping him open with guilt and irreconcilable commiseration. 

“I love you,” Tim croaks, uncaring how dispassionate his voice sounds in the still and the quiet. 

It’s a few more minutes of them staring at each other, breaths settling between their bodies, fluids drying on their overheated skin, before the director calls the cut. The cameras recede, the lights dimming to bearable, and Tim blinks up at Jason for a few beats more before rolling out from underneath him. 

Jason shifts to let him, watching numbly as Tim rights himself on the edge of the mattress and then pauses there, pain shooting through the core of him to split him wide. 

Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him that there would be repercussions for this, that his body would protest more than his mind would, and Tim sits on the edge of the soiled sheets sucking down tight breaths, waiting for the ache to pass. When it becomes manageable, he presses upwards, onto unsteady legs, and blindly accepts the help of the Avoxes who appear to stabilise him. 

He’s vaguely aware of one of them crouching to swipe a warm, wet cloth over his stomach, between his legs, and the detached abrasiveness of it makes the roiling heat swell in Tim’s core. Dazedly, he turns back to check on Jason, still sitting numbly in the middle of the bed, the mess drying on the sheets between his knees. He looks adrift, a smaller man beneath all those scars and muscle. 

Tim wants to reassure him, but he can't even find the words to reassure himself. 

When the set has been packed away and most of the crew has filtered out, they slip back into the freshly made bed to wish their avid viewers a good evening. Jason's hand trembles on Tim's shoulder, his smile blistering above those blue eyes, and Tim's glad he choked up what was left in his roiling stomach before they filmed their sign off. As soon as it's done, Jason rips himself from the bed to retire to his own company, and Tim's not far behind. He never manages to sleep in that bed again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Three cheers for unrealised potential!  
> I had so many plans and aspirations for this piece, and whilst I'm not disappointed in the final product, I do wish I had the opportunity to explore it in the full depth I had envisioned for it. But at least I have something to show for it, instead of a patchwork of WIP. Hope you enjoyed the glimpse into this AU nonetheless. 
> 
> And a very happy Asexual Awareness week to everyone!
> 
> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


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